A/N: I am reluctant to change the overall rating of this fic for the sake of one paragraph in this chapter, so I'll issue a warning of M content due to adult activity.

Also, the names of the hotels & restaurants in this chapter are fictional.

Chirpy Robin Brasserie, Suffolk – Tuesday June 3, 2014 – 9.08pm:

They are sitting over the last of the wine, when the young waitress again appears, suggesting coffee.

"One espresso, and a cappuccino," repeats the waitress, after Ruth and Harry had each ordered. Her name tag announces that her name is Madi.

Ruth smiles at Madi, while Harry orders a single malt whisky for himself, and a liqueur for Ruth.

He has had to be patient with the unfolding of his plan. When first he'd asked Ruth to have dinner with him at the only decent eatery in the village outside the pub, she had accepted his invitation without her usual hesitation.

"I'd enjoy a night out," she'd said, smiling across the breakfast table at him. It is only then that it hits Harry that, like him, Ruth had probably not dated at all during her time away from the UK.

So he'd rung the Chirpy Robin Brasserie, to find they were fully booked for Saturday night, and closed on Sunday and Monday, so he'd booked a table for two for Tuesday, silently praying that in the intervening days, Ruth will not have changed her mind.

She hadn't. In fact, she'd seemed disappointed at having to wait two whole days for their night out. To Harry's mind, the wait has played nicely into his Grand Plan.

Given it was a fine evening, they had walked to the restaurant, a low stone building set back from the high street, a few hundred metres past the pub - obscurely called The Brass Monkey. Ruth had commented on the wildlife theme chosen by some of the business owners in the village.

"Although," Harry had suggested, "around here, the real wildlife gathers in the pub each night."

With her free hand, Ruth had given his arm a light slap, and he'd felt ridiculously happy.

They had walked the rest of the way in silence, although when he had felt her hand grasp his own he had wanted to cry out, `about bloody time', but he'd expressed the sentiment silently, and only to himself.

46 minutes later:

Evan and Darcy Hoad had driven the length of the high street countless times, so that any unusual activity in the street, even of a week night in early summer, barely warranted a comment … until now.

It is Darcy who quickly turns her head, ordering her husband to slow down.

"I'm almost stopped as it is," he says, moving the car into a lower gear. "What is it, love?"

"It's our new neighbours," she says quietly, craning her neck to get a better look, without appearing obvious. "They're just leaving the Chirpy Robin. You know," she adds, turning back to address her husband, whose eyes haven't once strayed from the road ahead. "It's that place owned and run by those two gay men. I can't remember their names."

"Robin and Jamie," he says as they pass the pub, where he slows even more to avoid a couple of young men who are ambling across the street without looking either way.

In less than a minute they turn down the lane to their home.

"Maybe we should have offered them a ride home," Evan says, bringing the car to a stop in their driveway.

"Who? Those lads?"

"No," he says, cutting the motor. "Our neighbours. Harry and his lady."

"They were holding hands as they left the restaurant. The last thing they'd want is to be driven home by us," she says sharply. Really. Her husband hasn't the slightest notion about romance.

"Is that rain?" Evan says, glancing upwards as they leave the car, hurrying to their front door. "Maybe we should have picked them up anyway," he adds.

"Can you not remember us walking through a shower of rain that evening after we saw A Little Night Music?" It was in 1995. Olivier Theatre. Judi Dench as Desiree. Unforgettable. They had flown from Cape Town to London, especially to attend.

Evan stands just inside the front door, looking at his wife, his forehead puckered in a frown. "Did we really? But I hate getting wet."

Darcy shakes her head before heading through the house to the kitchen. "Cup of tea?" she calls over her shoulder, and Evan follows, knowing that is expected of him.

The rain doesn't bother Ruth or Harry. They walk along the high street hand in hand, still warm from the restaurant and the after dinner drinks. But it is more a light summer shower than full blown rain. Rain is when sheets of water lash the pavement, slapping bare skin before gathering in puddles beside the road, so that as cars pass by, their tyres raise curtains of water which splash the clothing of those daring to face the elements.

Harry offers his jacket to Ruth, but she smiles up at him. "I love showers like this," she says, meaning it. In that moment, Harry also decides that he quite likes light showers in early summer.

As they reach the front gate of the cottage, the shower becomes light rain, so they hurry the last few metres to the front door. Before going out, Harry had left the light on in the front hallway, so once inside, the door closed behind them, they turn to one another.

They no longer hold hands. For a very long moment they simply watch one another, until Ruth reaches up to touch his face, drawing her fingers along the line of his jaw. Harry longs to take her in his arms, but he'd much rather Ruth be the one to initiate further contact between them.

"What is it you're afraid of, Harry?" she asks, her voice, like her fingers, achingly gentle.

He sighs heavily before taking a small step closer to her, so that their bodies almost touch. He uses every ounce of restraint he can muster to not slide his arms around her waist, and draw her to him. "I suppose," he begins warily, "like many men, I fear rejection." Having opened up to her, he knows he must qualify his statement. "And," he continues, "it's your rejection of me I fear most."

Without hesitating, Ruth acts. She lifts her face to his, her intention clear. He lightly places his hands on her hips before reaching down to meet her lips with his own. The kiss is gentle, soft, lingering, and more loving than sexual, for which he is deeply grateful. He is already tempted to lead her upstairs, and to hell with the consequences.

It is only then that Harry remembers his plan .. the plan which must work. Slowly he draws out of the kiss, glancing down at Ruth in an unspoken apology, her eyes conveying surprise. After all, they both know he has loved her for years.

But for his plan to work, he has to slow things down, to step away from her, perhaps to lead them to the kitchen for a quick drink before they head to bed .. separately. His plan had been to take his time with her, so that in time she will choose to join him in bed.

So, what is it he can read in her eyes? Not only surprise, perhaps disappointment, but mostly bewilderment.

"Harry?" she says at last, taking a step away from him. "What's wrong? Did I do something wrong?"

Did she do something wrong? No, but he suspects he did. For the first time in their long and confusing relationship, they are in sync, and here he is throwing the proverbial spanner in the works with a bloody plan.

Slowly he shakes his head. "You've done nothing wrong, Ruth. It's me. I'm an idiot."

Harry steps away from her, leaning his back against the hall wall. He is putting distance between them while he thinks this through.

"What's wrong?" she asks once more. "Is it me?"

Again Harry shakes his head. "It's me," he says quietly, gently. "I had this idea that we should take our time, that we shouldn't jump into bed too soon."

"Take our time? How long is it we've been dancing around one another?"

He glances over her head as though the answer to her question might be written on the opposite wall. "I don't know. Ten years?" he replies, dropping his eyes to see her leaning towards him.

"At least ten years," she says, her voice strong, her stance bold, her expression confronting. "There are glaciers in the Arctic that move faster than we have."

He nods, knowing she is right .. as usual. "So .. what do you suggest?"

Ruth says nothing in reply, but takes his hand. "I have my own plan," she says, glancing up at him, her eyes bright. "Summarising, it's the opposite of your plan, and much more fun."

He follows her up the stairs, his eyes drinking in her legs, which while working beside him in London had always been hidden beneath long skirts and coats. Slowly he lifts his eyes to where her thighs disappear beneath the hem of her dress, inviting further exploration.

"Your bedroom?" she suggests, turning to face him as he takes the last step.

He nods, but he really doesn't care. When they have waited as long as they have to consummate their relationship, anywhere at all will do. Even the landing looks inviting. He follows her into his bedroom, where the bed is made, and everything else is in its proper place.

"Mmm," Ruth muses, "just as I expected." Harry lifts his eyebrows in an unspoken question. "You always were tidy," she explains, smiling.

Is this the same woman who had turned away from him, making every excuse she could muster why they could never be together? He briefly entertains the possibility that Ruth may be put off by tidiness, that a made bed is a turn-off for her, and clothes hung neatly in his wardrobe are likely to dampen her ardour.

But no, that's clearly not the case.

Reaching the end of the bed, Ruth turns, and reaches out to him. Harry believes they are already past the holding hands stage. He steps closer to her, draws her against him, and leans down to kiss her. This time their kiss is fiery, passionate, and with one clear goal in mind. But again he ends the kiss, only this time he turns her so that he stands flush against her back, his hips pressed against her lower back, while she rests the back of her head against his shoulder, turning to place her lips on his neck, sending a frisson of pleasure through his body to his groin.

He has wanted to do this for at least ten years, but he takes his time. Reaching around her body he runs his hands from her breasts, across her stomach, circling his hands over her belly. Very slowly his fingers slide across her lower abdomen to her pubic bone, and he briefly dips his fingers into the gap between her legs, where, through two layers of fabric he feels her heat. Hearing her low moan, his own body responds, and so he presses against her back again and again, in a slow and hypnotic rhythm, hardening with each press of his body against hers. Ruth then takes his right hand from her breast, and guides it between her legs, so that he finds his fingers inside her underwear, sliding over moist flesh, back and forth, back and forth. When he slips two fingers inside her, she gasps, before quickly turning to face him, her lips full and flushed, her pupils dilated and dark. Christ, he thinks, what is wrong with me that I believed postponing this was a good idea?

Neither hesitates. Clothes are quickly shed, forming an untidy pile on the carpet, and then they climb into bed, shuffling across the mattress to press their bodies together as they kiss eagerly and deeply, two pairs of hands exploring naked skin. Their coming together is cathartic; ten years they have waited for this, the years they have spent apart rendering their lovemaking tender and bittersweet, although over too soon.

Sated and spent, they sleep. Together at last.

Harry's Cottage, Suffolk – 10 days later:

The days fly by, with Ruth spending her days in the second bedroom, now her office, where she works on the first of her reports of her time outside the UK. While she is upstairs working, Harry battles his back and side garden in an attempt to create an outdoor environment they can both enjoy. Their nights are spent discovering one another in ways they had not previously allowed themselves. Occasionally it is upon waking that they take their pleasure in one another.

It is on a Friday morning ten days later that Harry sleeps in, while Ruth had risen at dawn to work in her office. She is still dressed in the clothes she sleeps in – a camisole and loose pants – when she returns to the bedroom to see if Harry is awake. For some reason she feels restless, and needs to see him.

Assuming he'd be awake by now, as she enters the bedroom she begins talking. It is when he rolls over, bleary-eyed that she realises she'd woken him.

"Sorry, sorry," she says, turning to leave the bedroom. "Go back to sleep."

Hearing the front door bell, they both sigh, the possibilities for that morning dashed. Ruth grabs Harry's dressing gown from the back of the door before hurrying down the stairs.

When she returns, she removes the dressing gown, throwing it over a chair. "Our neighbours have invited us to afternoon tea tomorrow," she says quickly. "That was the wife. Her name is Darcy."

Fully awake now, Harry gets out of bed, throwing on the dressing gown. "Bloody neighbours," is all he says before he ties the cord around his waist. "I hope you told them we were busy."

"Of course not. I'm dying to meet them."

A Suffolk village – Saturday June 14, 2014 – 6.23pm:

Darcy Hoad is serving leftovers for their dinner. Evan peers at the chicken wings, doused in some kind of sauce to disguise them from being left over from afternoon tea. Evan thinks that his wife goes way overboard when it comes to entertaining. Afternoon tea is traditionally cups of tea with cucumber sandwiches, but Darcy always takes things to a whole other level.

"What do you think?" his wife asks, taking her seat opposite him.

"What's in the sauce on the chicken?" he says in reply.

"No, I mean the neighbours. What do you think?"

"What do I think about Harry and Ruth?"

"That's what I said," Darcy says, becoming annoyed with him. "And it's a butter lemon sauce."

Evan brightens. He rather likes butter chicken with lemon. He chews on three chicken wings before wiping his lips and his fingers with a paper napkin. "The neighbours?" Darcy nods, still waiting. "I envy them."

"Good gracious, why?" Darcy lets her fork drop onto her plate.

Evan sits back in his chair, his eyes on his wife of thirty-five years … or is it thirty-six? "I envy them because they are mature, it's clear they haven't been together long, and I suspect they have a lot of sex."

Darcy is lost for an appropriate reply, but not for long. "You men," she says, "that's all you think about. There's more to marriage than sex."

"They're not married," he says, as though that explains everything. "But they are clearly happy together."

"I thought them a little … odd."

"How so?" Evan says, pushing his plate away. He'd eaten so much at afternoon tea that he's not really hungry, although he could do with a whisky.

"They didn't share much … personal information. Most people prattle on about their job, their children, their wider family."

"I got the impression that they both have secrets," he says quietly.

"Like what? That they're each married to other people?"

"No. Not that," Evan replies. "I'm wondering whether they're … intelligence. I've met spies before, and they have a particular way of interacting, like they leave their real selves at home, and they socialise from a separate persona."

Darcy is watching him, her mouth dropped open. "You've been watching too much TV," she says. "And those books you read. John Le Carré, and John Buchan, and Jack Higgins. They've made you see spies under every rock."

"I'm not suggesting that Harry and Ruth are spies. To be honest, they look nothing at all like spies. The first spy I ever met looked like he belonged with a heavy metal band. The thing about spies is they don't look like spies."

"Harry's hardly James Bond," Darcy adds, needing to have the last word.

"I find him to be intelligent and well read," Evan says quietly, happy to be putting the subject to bed. "I quite like him."

For once, Evan has managed to have the last word.

In the next door cottage, Ruth and Harry are about to sit down to a dinner of cold cuts of meat with salads. It is not until they are at the table, ready to eat, that the subject of their visit to their neighbours is raised.

"I rather liked Evan this time," Harry says absently. "The first time I met him I thought he was a tad try hard."

"Try hard?"

"Yes. Like he was trying to impress me. When other men do that, I lose respect for them. Seeing him with his wife explains a lot."

"She wears the pants," Ruth says bluntly. Ruth had found Darcy to be fussy and shallow, although she is open to being shown otherwise.

Harry puts down his knife and fork, and picks up his glass of wine. "Not quite," he says. "She appears to wear the pants, while Evan behaves in a way which encourages that behaviour. That way, both of them are happy."

"That's sick," Ruth replies flatly.

"It's also a relationship which has endured almost four decades."

Ruth tips her head to one side to acknowledge his point. "How do you think they … saw us?"

Harry takes a while to answer. "I suspect they think we're a little stand offish, although I also suspect there is much more to Evan than what he lets us see."

"Meaning?"

"I think we need to be careful around him. Did you check the bookcase in the living room?"

Ruth nods. "Masses of cookery books, a shelf of travel books, including almost every book ever written by Bill Bryson, and a whole shelf devoted to spy novels. When I saw all the Le Carré, I almost bolted."

Harry grins. "I wouldn't worry too much. As you and I both know, the spying game is mostly -"

"-meetings and report writing, yes, I know," Ruth says quickly.

"All the same, I'll not be sharing my work stories with either of them."

"I should hope not," Ruth says quickly, and after a time, during which she allows her mind to wander, she adds. "Maybe we should develop a firm plan of how we … propose to relate to normal people."

Harry watches her across the table. "Normal people? And here was I thinking we come across as being terribly normal."

"But, we're not, Harry. There is so much of our recent working lives that we have to keep to ourselves. Just imagine how they'd react were they to learn about .. The Incident." Ruth is silent for a long moment before she shares her thoughts. "We need to be truthful, but non-specific. If required, we can mention that we met while we both worked for the Home Office, and that I'd been overseas for an extended visit to do … I don't know ..."

"Research," Harry says firmly. "You were doing research on behalf of the Home Office. That way you're not lying, but just .."

".. bending the truth a little."

Harry nods and smiles at her. "That is only a slight bending. We'll not be lying, just … answering creatively."

"And if they ask me what it was I was researching, I'll say that it's to do with international relations, which it was .. in a way."

"It was in every way there is." Harry takes a sip of his wine. "I can guarantee that those who question us for details will not be at all interested in hearing the details. Rather, they're only being polite." Ruth is smiling to herself. "What is it?" he asks, reaching his hand across the table.

He is relieved when Ruth grasps his fingers in her own. "I was just thinking," she begins, before glancing up at him sheepishly. "Do you remember after I turned down your marriage proposal -"

Harry's nod is barely perceptible, although Ruth sees it.

Ruth continues. "A few weeks later, we were on the roof balcony when I said something like, `what would we talk about to the neighbours?' Do you remember that?"

How can he ever forget it? Again, he nods.

"Well ..." Ruth continues, "it turns out that talking to the neighbours is … somewhat challenging, but a lot of fun."

Noting the sparkle of joy in her eyes, Harry squeezes her fingers. "It's not that bad, after all, is it?"

"No. It's not that bad. I think we're both rather good at it."

"And we're rather spectacular when we do it together," he adds.

Ruth hesitates. "Are we now talking about something else?" she asks quietly.

"I don't know about you," Harry replies, "but I certainly am." He waits, assessing the pros and cons of continuing his thought process aloud. He decides to dive in head first. "I need you to know that the marriage proposal still stands," he says, holding her gaze.

During the minutes of silence which follows, Harry watches her face for some indication that his offer has been unwelcome. What he reads in her expression is surprise, but not embarrassment, and certainly not rejection.

"Ask me that again in six months," she says, her voice gentle.

Six months? That sounds like an aeon, but at least she hadn't flatly turned him down. "We don't have to be married, Ruth. It's just that ..." He stops short of launching into a speech about making provision for her future when he dies.

"I know," Ruth says, smiling across the table at him.

"You do?"

"You prefer to have your i's dotted, and your t's crossed. Give me a few months to get used to the idea. That's the best I can do for now."

And yet only last week she had almost dragged him up the stairs and begged him to take her to bed. Harry really doesn't understand women. It's just that this particular woman is someone he doesn't wish to live without … not ever again.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says.

"And nor am I." Ruth replies.

A/N: That's it for this fic. Thank you to all who have shown an interest in this, and especially to reviewers.